Went to a casting for a training video. Good money.
Character: Nurse.
Casting agent location: City centre.
Problem One: Parking.
Problem Two: Don’t have GPS. Only MAP.
Problem Three: Nurse?
Upside: Good money.
I felt like an obnoxious tourist trying to bond with the street map while driving aimlessly looking for the right address. I eventually found a parking spot in a suspiciously narrow side street. I was sandwiched between two delivery trucks and surrounded by homeless people. One man wanted to wash my car, one wanted food, one wanted money, one wanted to watch my car in case one of the guys in the gang standing on the corner wants to steal it and one was lying in his own pee against the wall of the building. Dogs could smell my fear. But being the brilliant actress that I am, I pretended not to be fazed and concentrated on trying to figure out if the even numbers were on the right side of the street or the left and on which side of the street I was. If I turned around, right will be on the other side. Very confusing. I needed to find the number…
I finally found it hiding between a factory and a warehouse. Lovely! I confidently walked through the door into the holding area to the desk at the end of the room and wrote my name on the list. The room was packed. There were old people, toddlers, babies, young people, middle-aged people, ugly people, pretty people, fat people, skinny people, people from every known culture and race on earth. Were they casting every character in “Lord of the Rings”? Was I in the right place? I saw a little girl in a bridesmaid’s dress, pin-curls and lipstick. I saw a woman wearing a nurse’s uniform. Was she here to resuscitate someone who collapsed because of claustrophobia, or was she just fully prepared and in costume for the casting?
No open seats. The kids were running around the room chasing – whatever kids chase – each other? – and screaming. The young people were checking each other out, making mental notes of each others’ flaws and assets. The mothers were making new friends with their competitors and chatting about giving birth, teething, potty training and if apple juice can replace sugar in their children’s diets. Some were reading magazines dated from 1996. Middle aged women in slip-slops were talking about menopause and the pros and cons of hormone replacement. Older people were clearly irritated with the noise and gave each other knowing looks over their bifocals. More and more people were arriving and the situation was getting intense. Where the hell did they park? It was also extremely hot and I could smell the men perspiring – well, they were sweating like pigs.
I wanted to sit down somewhere, because the kids were running and bumping into me. Everyone started talking louder. Too much noise. Too many people. Too much sweat. I was experiencing sensory overload.
A chair opened up next to a rather large woman sitting on two chairs. I decided to wrestle my way to the open chair. I had to be quick, because I saw at least five people eyeing it and moving in. A four year old dashed past me, jumped onto the chair and shouted: “Mommy! Mommy! This fat lady stinks!” The room went quiet. All eyes on the mommy. She looked embarrassed for a split second, turned to her new found friend and continued talking about nappy rash. The fat woman did not blink an eye. She kept staring into a blank space in front of her.
Coming from Planet Gorgeous, this was Hell. What on earth was I doing here? What were all these people doing here? I kept wondering why this wasn’t bothering anyone else. Are we so set on ‘being discovered’, making money or suffering for our Art that we are purposefully ignoring our dire conditions? Am I not dedicated enough because I don’t want to put myself through this? Just how badly do I need/want this? I came to this casting with my acting chops polished, perfectly groomed and gorgeous. Half an hour of visiting this disturbing planet, made me long for my own world where I can surround myself with beauty and indulge in the three major food groups: champagne, chocolates and cigarettes.
I decided to check on my car. I’m not the care-giver type anyway.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Dance Class
Dance is one of my passions. It makes me feel pretty and it is bloody good exercise. I have been dancing since I was four years old and have never stopped. I love dance so much that during one stage of my life my dancing career eclipsed my acting career. Yes, darling, you can call dancing as a showgirl a career. I love the sequined costumes, the drag queen make-up, the feathered headpieces and the high-heeled shoes, and I just loved being lifted by strong, young men.
I had to stop dancing in productions, because my body caught up with all my old dance injuries. My knees can predict the weather, my ankles twist without a sixties soundtrack and when I bend down I have to stay down for a while (and have to find something to do while I’m down there) until my back decides to co-operate. My muscles take longer to warm up and I can only do the splits when I’m drunk. When I dance I feel like a twenty five year old, but my body keeps reminding me that I am not.
Since the middle nineties I have been choreographing everything from beauty pageants to fashion shows to strip shows and even taught dance. Now, at fifty, I decided to seek out a dance class and become a dance student again.
I have to admit, I was nervous. It has been so long since I have been in a dance class, actually following instructions rather than giving them. It is proving to be quite challenging. On top of that I am also unfit, my technique is nonexistent and I am acutely aware of all my age related shortcomings.
On arrival I checked out the studio to orientate myself. No mirrors? How am I going to dance with no mirrors? I have to have mirrors so that I could check my lines, alignment and posture. Then the dance teacher asked me to remove my shoes. Ohmigod! I have to dance with bare feet! The last time I danced barefoot was for a modern dance production about fifteen years ago. And being barefoot is also one of my little pet peeves. I don’t even do it on Planet Gorgeous. Regardless, I obliged, took off my shoes and noticed that I was the only one there with nail polish on my toenails. Black nail polish.
The dance teacher introduced me to the class and started the warm-up. I positioned myself in front of a window so that I could see my reflection in the glass. I was dancing! I became Margot Fonteyn, Martha Graham and Gwen Verdon all at the same time! I was in the front row so that I could see the dance teacher clearly and after about half an hour into the class found myself next to her - counting out loud and indicating the direction of the floor patterns to the rest of the class. She humoured me for a while and then asked the back row to swop with the front row. Oops. Note to Boefie: This is NOT your class. You are NOT the choreographer or teacher. Now do as you are told!
I reluctantly moved to the back, but there was this very tall woman in front of me and I could not see a thing. I needed to be in front. I needed mirrors. And I could not see my reflection in the window from the back. But what I could see were black marks all over the floor from the black nail polish on my toes. Oops!
After the class I thanked my dance teacher and apologised for the marks on the floor. She hugged me and said, “See you next time.” Hooray! I am allowed back! For my first day I guess ruining the floor and taking over the class isn’t that bad. I’ll get used to being a dance student…eventually.
I had to stop dancing in productions, because my body caught up with all my old dance injuries. My knees can predict the weather, my ankles twist without a sixties soundtrack and when I bend down I have to stay down for a while (and have to find something to do while I’m down there) until my back decides to co-operate. My muscles take longer to warm up and I can only do the splits when I’m drunk. When I dance I feel like a twenty five year old, but my body keeps reminding me that I am not.
Since the middle nineties I have been choreographing everything from beauty pageants to fashion shows to strip shows and even taught dance. Now, at fifty, I decided to seek out a dance class and become a dance student again.
I have to admit, I was nervous. It has been so long since I have been in a dance class, actually following instructions rather than giving them. It is proving to be quite challenging. On top of that I am also unfit, my technique is nonexistent and I am acutely aware of all my age related shortcomings.
On arrival I checked out the studio to orientate myself. No mirrors? How am I going to dance with no mirrors? I have to have mirrors so that I could check my lines, alignment and posture. Then the dance teacher asked me to remove my shoes. Ohmigod! I have to dance with bare feet! The last time I danced barefoot was for a modern dance production about fifteen years ago. And being barefoot is also one of my little pet peeves. I don’t even do it on Planet Gorgeous. Regardless, I obliged, took off my shoes and noticed that I was the only one there with nail polish on my toenails. Black nail polish.
The dance teacher introduced me to the class and started the warm-up. I positioned myself in front of a window so that I could see my reflection in the glass. I was dancing! I became Margot Fonteyn, Martha Graham and Gwen Verdon all at the same time! I was in the front row so that I could see the dance teacher clearly and after about half an hour into the class found myself next to her - counting out loud and indicating the direction of the floor patterns to the rest of the class. She humoured me for a while and then asked the back row to swop with the front row. Oops. Note to Boefie: This is NOT your class. You are NOT the choreographer or teacher. Now do as you are told!
I reluctantly moved to the back, but there was this very tall woman in front of me and I could not see a thing. I needed to be in front. I needed mirrors. And I could not see my reflection in the window from the back. But what I could see were black marks all over the floor from the black nail polish on my toes. Oops!
After the class I thanked my dance teacher and apologised for the marks on the floor. She hugged me and said, “See you next time.” Hooray! I am allowed back! For my first day I guess ruining the floor and taking over the class isn’t that bad. I’ll get used to being a dance student…eventually.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Survival tips for aging performers
Darlings, let’s face it; we are not twenty five anymore. In fact, we are not even thirty. We are middle aged, and according to those twenty five year old bitches, we are OLD. As Barbra Johnson says: We are living somewhere between estrogen and death. But, we are talented, mature (some of us) and have a life-long experience of the entertainment industry. We are now at the age where we have to prove that we’re just as good as we never were.
There is hope for us:
1. It is not how experienced or talented you are in this business anymore. It is not who you know, but who knows you. Network. Yes, even at our age, where we think we know everybody. We don’t. The directors and producers are becoming younger and younger.
2. Have new portfolio photos taken every year. Insist on the photographer airbrushing those horrible crow’s-feet and bags under your eyes. Voila! You’re ten years younger! Put your best shot on business cards that look like mini z-cards and hand them out to everybody.
3. Exercise the Anthony Hopkins way: “I have a punishing workout regimen. Every day I do three minutes on a treadmill, and then I lie down, drink a glass of vodka and smoke a cigarette.” I substitute the vodka with French champagne. Choose your poison carefully. Applying lip-liner when you are drunk is a bitch.
4. Make a plastic surgeon your best friend. Voila! You’re ten years younger.
5. Try not to grow old, and if you have already lost that battle, try not to grow up.
6. Date younger men. If you grow tired of them you can send them back to their mothers. I think it was Mae West (or Zsa Zsa Gabor or Graucho Marx) who said that she is only as young as the man she feels. I’m thirty five at the moment.
7. Always, ladies, always wear false eyelashes when you leave the house. I don’t mean the showgirl lashes that female country singers or charismatic preachers’ wives wear. Be subtle. You don’t want to look like you have two tarantulas sitting on your face, now do you?
8. Never ever take your hair back or away from your face a la turbaned Joan Collins in Dynasty. Only ballet dancers and country grandmothers wear their hair in buns. Invest in a few hair pieces or extensions; just in case you have a bad hair day.
9. When performing in a movie or television, you have to be aware of the fact that your face is not as smooth as a baby’s bottom anymore. Even the lift of an eyebrow will generate a multitude of lines and wrinkles to spontaneously combust over your face. (Unless you are botoxed into rigor mortis.) Reduce facial movements to a minimum. You are talented enough to show emotion through your eyes. I like to call this acting technique: facial minimalism.
10. Make sure you have backlighting at all times. Even when not being filmed or photographed. When you go to a restaurant, always sit with your back towards the window or door or where ever the strongest light is coming from. Backlighting will soften your face and give you an ethereal glow. Voila! Ten years younger!
11. Most aging female performers prefer the stage to film, because on stage you can be any age by the stroke of a make-up brush. But on film or television you have to resort to character roles when you reach ‘a certain age’. What would have happened to Marilyn Monroe, had she lived to fifty? For how long could she have sustained the illusion of being MM? I think she would have tried acting on stage. Would she have been able to do it? We would never know… But, you, my darling actress of undesirable age, are you content with playing character roles until you die? Keep in mind, though, that character roles are much more demanding than ‘straight’ roles and we have the talent and experience to pull it off. So technically we can do it…if we so desire.
12. I hate going to auditions, because I know that the casting agent or the director has a clear image of what he/she wants their character to look like or be. It is your job to convince them that YOU are what they are looking for. I once went to an audition where I knew straight away that I was not what they wanted, but I needed the job. I needed a strategy, so I decided to take my hairbrush, a hair band and my reading glasses with me into the audition room. After I introduced myself, I started to transform myself into the character in front of them. They could see who I am and who I can be in a matter of seconds. I got the job.
13. Love your audience. You do not have to be on stage with a full house; you do not have to have a few million viewers for you television role or a box office blockbuster. On Planet Gorgeous I am aware that everyone is my audience – the guy who washes my car, the woman selling me my black eyeliner at the make-up counter, the waiter serving me my caviar. I am courteous to them; I dress for them; I do my hair for them; I apply my lipstick for them. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…after all.
There is hope for us:
1. It is not how experienced or talented you are in this business anymore. It is not who you know, but who knows you. Network. Yes, even at our age, where we think we know everybody. We don’t. The directors and producers are becoming younger and younger.
2. Have new portfolio photos taken every year. Insist on the photographer airbrushing those horrible crow’s-feet and bags under your eyes. Voila! You’re ten years younger! Put your best shot on business cards that look like mini z-cards and hand them out to everybody.
3. Exercise the Anthony Hopkins way: “I have a punishing workout regimen. Every day I do three minutes on a treadmill, and then I lie down, drink a glass of vodka and smoke a cigarette.” I substitute the vodka with French champagne. Choose your poison carefully. Applying lip-liner when you are drunk is a bitch.
4. Make a plastic surgeon your best friend. Voila! You’re ten years younger.
5. Try not to grow old, and if you have already lost that battle, try not to grow up.
6. Date younger men. If you grow tired of them you can send them back to their mothers. I think it was Mae West (or Zsa Zsa Gabor or Graucho Marx) who said that she is only as young as the man she feels. I’m thirty five at the moment.
7. Always, ladies, always wear false eyelashes when you leave the house. I don’t mean the showgirl lashes that female country singers or charismatic preachers’ wives wear. Be subtle. You don’t want to look like you have two tarantulas sitting on your face, now do you?
8. Never ever take your hair back or away from your face a la turbaned Joan Collins in Dynasty. Only ballet dancers and country grandmothers wear their hair in buns. Invest in a few hair pieces or extensions; just in case you have a bad hair day.
9. When performing in a movie or television, you have to be aware of the fact that your face is not as smooth as a baby’s bottom anymore. Even the lift of an eyebrow will generate a multitude of lines and wrinkles to spontaneously combust over your face. (Unless you are botoxed into rigor mortis.) Reduce facial movements to a minimum. You are talented enough to show emotion through your eyes. I like to call this acting technique: facial minimalism.
10. Make sure you have backlighting at all times. Even when not being filmed or photographed. When you go to a restaurant, always sit with your back towards the window or door or where ever the strongest light is coming from. Backlighting will soften your face and give you an ethereal glow. Voila! Ten years younger!
11. Most aging female performers prefer the stage to film, because on stage you can be any age by the stroke of a make-up brush. But on film or television you have to resort to character roles when you reach ‘a certain age’. What would have happened to Marilyn Monroe, had she lived to fifty? For how long could she have sustained the illusion of being MM? I think she would have tried acting on stage. Would she have been able to do it? We would never know… But, you, my darling actress of undesirable age, are you content with playing character roles until you die? Keep in mind, though, that character roles are much more demanding than ‘straight’ roles and we have the talent and experience to pull it off. So technically we can do it…if we so desire.
12. I hate going to auditions, because I know that the casting agent or the director has a clear image of what he/she wants their character to look like or be. It is your job to convince them that YOU are what they are looking for. I once went to an audition where I knew straight away that I was not what they wanted, but I needed the job. I needed a strategy, so I decided to take my hairbrush, a hair band and my reading glasses with me into the audition room. After I introduced myself, I started to transform myself into the character in front of them. They could see who I am and who I can be in a matter of seconds. I got the job.
13. Love your audience. You do not have to be on stage with a full house; you do not have to have a few million viewers for you television role or a box office blockbuster. On Planet Gorgeous I am aware that everyone is my audience – the guy who washes my car, the woman selling me my black eyeliner at the make-up counter, the waiter serving me my caviar. I am courteous to them; I dress for them; I do my hair for them; I apply my lipstick for them. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…after all.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Melodrama
Shakespeare was absolutely spot on when he wrote that “all the world’s a stage”. Every day we prepare ourselves in full costume and make up; we rehearse our lines in order to communicate with each other and we go into pre-production for about four years on average in order to do our jobs properly. Take a doctor: millions of years of studying and internship only to wear that cute little white costume to heal the sick with lots of little shiny props. The lawyer: studying and doing research for every scene to be able to deliver monologues that will convince the audience to convict the bad guy.
Which brings me to this amazing piece of theatre I experienced over the past weekend.
As you enter the auditorium of the arena theatre, music is playing to set the mood. Programmes and refreshments are being sold at front of house and the audience is excited. Most of them are dressed for the occasion and armed with appropriate props. Then, at last! Curtain up. The highly anticipated show starts with a dance number. The dancing girls are all gorgeous, with bodies to die for (bitches), dressed in tiny little costumes they got from the children’s department at Woolworths. The audience goes wild. The Master of Ceremonies announces the next number and the cast enters the stage space. Now the audience is just about passing out from excitement.
Their costumes are colourful and functional. They appear well warmed up – oh! – wait – there’s a performer still stretching. Not professional darling! You warm up backstage, not ON stage. It starts. What a show! The choreography is stunning and the floor patterns creative. The focus and energy of these performers are astounding and the ensemble play faultless! And talk about audience participation! Every time one of the cast members does a stunt the audience rises to standing ovation. Because the production is being filmed, there are make-up artists running on stage during the performance to do checks and touch-ups, and there are a few costume changes.
During interval the audience stretch their legs and some buy coffee or alcoholic beverages, while discussing the first half. Everyone’s a critic and seems to be completely clued up and knowledgeable about the piece and how to make it even better. Some even discuss the cast for the next number. One could swear that everyone has done this before, played every part and choreographed every movement themselves. I try to engage in the conversation commenting on the performers’ sculpted asses; who the hairdresser of that cute blond guy with the sexy hair is and whether or not the costume design fully supports the message. I get a few frowns, one or two eye rolls and a shake of the head. I try again.
“I love the way they incorporated multi-media into the performance. It really enhances the show and some of the performers really look good in close-up, I mean, especially that cute blond guy with the sexy hair…”
A guy with a boep and a beer in his hand looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“What do you mean?” he grunts. He looks confused and takes another a swig of beer.
“I mean, this production…” I gesticulate elaborately towards the performance space, “…is really creatively put together taking into consideration the lighting, choice of music and the dedication of the performers…”
I get the feeling he’s not following me. What planet is he from? Maybe I should terminate this conversation in a language that he might understand.
“The dancing girls are really hot today.”
“Ja. Hot.” He manages a faint smile. Disconcertingly I take my seat and silently wait for the next act, pondering the cost of production and marketability value of the concept.
In the second half the performers jump and dive and move like gazelles. Poetry in motion! The audience cheer on the good guys and boo the bad guys. The performance ends on a climax and the good guys win! A happy ending! I love melodrama!
There is a short award ceremony with pyrotechnics and confetti after the show and the cute blonde guy with the sexy hair gets an award.
Wynand Olivier, jou doring!
Isn’t rugby stunning?!
Which brings me to this amazing piece of theatre I experienced over the past weekend.
As you enter the auditorium of the arena theatre, music is playing to set the mood. Programmes and refreshments are being sold at front of house and the audience is excited. Most of them are dressed for the occasion and armed with appropriate props. Then, at last! Curtain up. The highly anticipated show starts with a dance number. The dancing girls are all gorgeous, with bodies to die for (bitches), dressed in tiny little costumes they got from the children’s department at Woolworths. The audience goes wild. The Master of Ceremonies announces the next number and the cast enters the stage space. Now the audience is just about passing out from excitement.
Their costumes are colourful and functional. They appear well warmed up – oh! – wait – there’s a performer still stretching. Not professional darling! You warm up backstage, not ON stage. It starts. What a show! The choreography is stunning and the floor patterns creative. The focus and energy of these performers are astounding and the ensemble play faultless! And talk about audience participation! Every time one of the cast members does a stunt the audience rises to standing ovation. Because the production is being filmed, there are make-up artists running on stage during the performance to do checks and touch-ups, and there are a few costume changes.
During interval the audience stretch their legs and some buy coffee or alcoholic beverages, while discussing the first half. Everyone’s a critic and seems to be completely clued up and knowledgeable about the piece and how to make it even better. Some even discuss the cast for the next number. One could swear that everyone has done this before, played every part and choreographed every movement themselves. I try to engage in the conversation commenting on the performers’ sculpted asses; who the hairdresser of that cute blond guy with the sexy hair is and whether or not the costume design fully supports the message. I get a few frowns, one or two eye rolls and a shake of the head. I try again.
“I love the way they incorporated multi-media into the performance. It really enhances the show and some of the performers really look good in close-up, I mean, especially that cute blond guy with the sexy hair…”
A guy with a boep and a beer in his hand looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“What do you mean?” he grunts. He looks confused and takes another a swig of beer.
“I mean, this production…” I gesticulate elaborately towards the performance space, “…is really creatively put together taking into consideration the lighting, choice of music and the dedication of the performers…”
I get the feeling he’s not following me. What planet is he from? Maybe I should terminate this conversation in a language that he might understand.
“The dancing girls are really hot today.”
“Ja. Hot.” He manages a faint smile. Disconcertingly I take my seat and silently wait for the next act, pondering the cost of production and marketability value of the concept.
In the second half the performers jump and dive and move like gazelles. Poetry in motion! The audience cheer on the good guys and boo the bad guys. The performance ends on a climax and the good guys win! A happy ending! I love melodrama!
There is a short award ceremony with pyrotechnics and confetti after the show and the cute blonde guy with the sexy hair gets an award.
Wynand Olivier, jou doring!
Isn’t rugby stunning?!
Monday, June 1, 2009
The Pastor's Wife
My agent calls: “I have e-mailed you a script. This role is perfect for you. You are auditioning for the part of Mrs. Murray. It is a sitcom and will be shot locally.”
I immediately download and print the audition script. Mrs. Murray is a Pastor’s wife. What? I knew a pastor’s wife once. She was old, about fifty (hang on, I’m fifty) and wore sensible shoes and buttoned up shirts and brooches. I phone my agent. “Just checking on this audition… What did you say the character’s name is?” “Mrs. Murray. You’ll be perfect! It’s a comedy!”
My GBF* calls. He wants me to come over to his place, because they are felling trees in his garden and he needs my advice. I need help. I am auditioning for a pastor’s wife. Through his uncontrollable laughter we decide that I need help more than he does. I arrive with my script and we go though my lines. The treefeller’s chainsaw is a bit distracting and we have to shout the lines to each other. He is shouting the character of the female estate agent trying to sell a house to the pastor’s wife. He decided that he’s perfect for the part of the female estate agent, but it is going to be a bit of a stretch turning me into Mrs. Murray. We work out actions and gestures, phrasing and inflections and discuss my costume. Yes, I do have incredible shoes. Oh, sensible shoes. The noise! No, I do not have sensible shoes or a brooch or a calf length skirt. I have stilettos, enough Bling to make Puff Daddy jealous and mini skirts. Meanwhile it sounds like Armageddon outside while the treefeller is, well, felling the trees.
I go home and rummage though my closet. I must have something in there that Mrs. Murray might wear. After about a frantic hour I settle for grey pants, a black shirt, my red stilettos and a matching red handbag, Perfect! Conservative, yet stylish. I look amazing.
At the audition there are five other women waiting in reception going through their lines. It is completely quiet, but I see five pairs of lips move. For a moment I thought I had gone completely deaf. The bloody chainsaw wail is still ringing in my ears. I hear a phone ring in the production office next door. Thank god! I can hear! I sit down and scrutinize my competition: They look so old and conventional. Are we really all the same age?
I whisper an introduction to the woman next to me. She whispers back, “What role are you auditioning for?” I show her my script and she shows me hers. “I see you are dressed for the part,” I continue politely. “Oh”, she looks disconcerted, “actually, these are my work clothes. I’m going back to work after the audition.” I’m taken aback. She has another JOB? “Acting is my hobby,” she adds as she sees my face fall to pieces on the floor. HOBBY? Acting is her HOBBY?! Acting is my life, my passion, the sunshine of my existence! I wanted to scream at her: “Fuck off to your job, bitch, I take this seriously. THIS IS MY JOB! And fire your stylist! Brown is not the new black!” But I didn’t. I just sat there. Perplexed. My head is spinning. What if she gets the part and I don’t? Is she a better actress than I am? What is Mrs. Murray’s dialogue? Am I wearing the wrong clothes? Am I losing my mind? Am I Mrs. Murray or is Mrs. Murray this middle-aged woman in brown with nothing to lose, who acts in her spare time stealing parts from serious actresses?
I refocus, resolve my inner paroxysm and excuse myself. I need a cigarette, so I go outside to smoke. Here I am, trying to be a pastor’s wife while wearing red stilettos and smoking a cigarette (nothing wrong with this picture), but I’m going to go back in there and audition my heart out. I am, after all, a professional, and for a few minutes I WILL be Mrs. Murray, the pastor’s wife.
* Gay Best Friend
I immediately download and print the audition script. Mrs. Murray is a Pastor’s wife. What? I knew a pastor’s wife once. She was old, about fifty (hang on, I’m fifty) and wore sensible shoes and buttoned up shirts and brooches. I phone my agent. “Just checking on this audition… What did you say the character’s name is?” “Mrs. Murray. You’ll be perfect! It’s a comedy!”
My GBF* calls. He wants me to come over to his place, because they are felling trees in his garden and he needs my advice. I need help. I am auditioning for a pastor’s wife. Through his uncontrollable laughter we decide that I need help more than he does. I arrive with my script and we go though my lines. The treefeller’s chainsaw is a bit distracting and we have to shout the lines to each other. He is shouting the character of the female estate agent trying to sell a house to the pastor’s wife. He decided that he’s perfect for the part of the female estate agent, but it is going to be a bit of a stretch turning me into Mrs. Murray. We work out actions and gestures, phrasing and inflections and discuss my costume. Yes, I do have incredible shoes. Oh, sensible shoes. The noise! No, I do not have sensible shoes or a brooch or a calf length skirt. I have stilettos, enough Bling to make Puff Daddy jealous and mini skirts. Meanwhile it sounds like Armageddon outside while the treefeller is, well, felling the trees.
I go home and rummage though my closet. I must have something in there that Mrs. Murray might wear. After about a frantic hour I settle for grey pants, a black shirt, my red stilettos and a matching red handbag, Perfect! Conservative, yet stylish. I look amazing.
At the audition there are five other women waiting in reception going through their lines. It is completely quiet, but I see five pairs of lips move. For a moment I thought I had gone completely deaf. The bloody chainsaw wail is still ringing in my ears. I hear a phone ring in the production office next door. Thank god! I can hear! I sit down and scrutinize my competition: They look so old and conventional. Are we really all the same age?
I whisper an introduction to the woman next to me. She whispers back, “What role are you auditioning for?” I show her my script and she shows me hers. “I see you are dressed for the part,” I continue politely. “Oh”, she looks disconcerted, “actually, these are my work clothes. I’m going back to work after the audition.” I’m taken aback. She has another JOB? “Acting is my hobby,” she adds as she sees my face fall to pieces on the floor. HOBBY? Acting is her HOBBY?! Acting is my life, my passion, the sunshine of my existence! I wanted to scream at her: “Fuck off to your job, bitch, I take this seriously. THIS IS MY JOB! And fire your stylist! Brown is not the new black!” But I didn’t. I just sat there. Perplexed. My head is spinning. What if she gets the part and I don’t? Is she a better actress than I am? What is Mrs. Murray’s dialogue? Am I wearing the wrong clothes? Am I losing my mind? Am I Mrs. Murray or is Mrs. Murray this middle-aged woman in brown with nothing to lose, who acts in her spare time stealing parts from serious actresses?
I refocus, resolve my inner paroxysm and excuse myself. I need a cigarette, so I go outside to smoke. Here I am, trying to be a pastor’s wife while wearing red stilettos and smoking a cigarette (nothing wrong with this picture), but I’m going to go back in there and audition my heart out. I am, after all, a professional, and for a few minutes I WILL be Mrs. Murray, the pastor’s wife.
* Gay Best Friend
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)